Sunday, April 10, 2011
Babe, I'm gonna leave you. I'm going to leave you because when I look at you, you can hardly meet my eyes. When I look at you, my heart still skips a beat, there is a catch in that funny part of my chest just waiting for you to charm me again. I'm going to leave you because when I touch you, your skin is cold. Your hands no longer fold around mine, and my lips are left waiting for tender kisses. I'm going to leave you because when we drive, and I look over from the passenger side to catch your reaction to what I said or just admire your profile, you don't turn your head to look at me. I'm going to leave you because when you look at me, your eyes crinkle and this warmth comes pouring out, and you don't even need to smile. I never really knew you, I suppose. I'm going to leave you because I need to take care of myself first, and even though I love you, I'll never have you. I'm going to leave you, even though it will break my heart. I'm going to leave you because I know it won't break yours.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
I'm tired. And I'm bored of the stairs that lead up to my apartment. I'm weary of the window that lets the sun in. I don't want to see the sun very much anymore. I stare around, and I hope that things will change. I hope that things will transform, like a magic trick made real. I see the things, the objects that trap me. How this bed defines me, how those lights around my window show my soul. How that post-it with a scrawled note means so much to me. Sometimes I look around me, and pretend that the surfaces I can touch evaporated. How this pill-bottle would go up in a gentle pop of lavender smoke. How my sneakers in the corner would brown and crinkle like a dead leaf until they were nothing at all. I think of the things I love, like my antique ruby ring that cost more than anything I have ever bought. Like the stack of notes my mother sent me when I was away, because she knew I was lonely. How those things define me as much as the things that would go up in smoke, or crinkle and disappear. Does it matter that I prefer a cool, crisp white cotton sheet to the navy jersey one's covering my bed. Does it matter that five stray bobby pins scatter in a corner of my room, one pried open so it's useless. Does it matter that I don't care enough to pick them up. I'm tired. I don't want to care whether or not I have sour cream on my tacos. I don't want to care if a stud falls of my purse, or if I lose my purse entirely. I'm tired of being contained by myself, by my choices, by my things. I want to have nothing. Once I have nothing, perhaps, then I will be able to find myself. Find myself outside of the splenda-crusted wine glass, outside of the mint green hat, outside of the seven pairs of boots lining my hallway. Maybe by being more "inside", I can find more beauty in the outside, and again enjoy sunlight.